


The Unsolved Case of the Detective's Bum

by sequins_stripes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Attempt at Humor, Awesome Molly Hooper, Awkward First Times, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Embarrassed Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lab Sex, Light BDSM, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Naked Sherlock, Oral Sex, Riding Crops, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sexy Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spanking, St. Bart's, Tea, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequins_stripes/pseuds/sequins_stripes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you asked her now, she wouldn’t be able to tell you what came over her on that afternoon.  The impulse, of course, is easy enough to explain – a mental image of it had materialized on more than one occasion.  But what had actually propelled her to act?  What made Molly Hooper, during a criminal investigation, smack Sherlock Holmes’s bum?  She just doesn’t know.  Of course, no one is complaining about the chain reaction that followed.  So the question’s hardly relevant.</p>
<p>A Sherlolly origins story, set post Series Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am working through my first proper Sherlock-and-Molly get together fic. More chapters, though not a whole lot of plot, to follow. Please enjoy.

_If you asked her now, she wouldn’t be able to tell you what came over her on that afternoon. The impulse, of course, is easy enough to explain – a mental image of it had materialized on more than one occasion. But what had actually propelled her to act? What made Molly Hooper, during a criminal investigation, smack Sherlock Holmes’s bum? She just doesn’t know. Of course, no one is complaining about the chain reaction that followed. So the question’s hardly relevant._

 

 

Baker Street? If you can. – SH

It was Molly’s day off and Sherlock knew as much. But the caveat was some sort of nod towards civility over command and Molly appreciated the effort in the text. “It’s not my birthday, Sherlock” she announced, walking through the open door at 221B, “ and I don’t think you owe me any favors. What special occasion warrants an offer to solve crimes together?” He was seated in his chair wearing the coat, scarf, and black leather gloves – it was unclear whether he had dressed in anticipation of their leaving immediately or simply hadn’t bothered to de-robe in some time. He looked vaguely puzzled at the teasing question. “Oh…yes…right.” A pause and then gravely, “I require your expertise on a matter.” “You mean John’s on holiday with the family.” “I really do need your help!” He snapped back. She stood her ground, only arching a brow. “I would…like…your help?” He looked askance, as though the combination of those words in that order confused him. Molly relented with a smile and a bright “Okay!” In another second he was half way out the door, his colorfully clad assistant for the day trailing behind.

When they arrived at the crime scene, it was obvious that Sherlock really had only wanted the company, or, more accurately, the attention. The room was basically empty. No human remains, bodily fluids, or any other situations necessitating a pathologist’s knowledge. There were hardly any personal affects even to riffle through for clues. Just some old, standard issue furniture in neutral colors of brown and beige. The state of the room surprised the detective and he seemed intent upon discovering something to have made the trip worthwhile. He spun around three or four times, grasping for something to anchor a deduction. He found none.

“Fascinating. Why is it fascinating? How can an empty room be fascinating? Ah…” Sherlock’s thought process went off in rapid fire. Molly quietly clung close to the door, trying to stay out of the way of the flurry of activity and hoping not to disturb the flow He set about checking each piece of furniture for items hidden away behind bookcases and under seat cushions. The coat, getting in the way of reaching underneath the sofa, was discarded. He dropped to his knees, crawling on his hands and peering down. In the awkward pose, his posterior stuck straight up in the air.

Molly stared at Sherlock’s bum. There wasn’t much else to be done in the situation. It was an extraordinary bum. Its curve was particularly pleasing and surprisingly on a frame otherwise so slender. Molly had often guessed that Sherlock’s singular, rather rigid way of standing was a deliberate choice to accentuate the feature that elicited a certain response in some women…and some men too, probably. It strained against the fine wool cloth seat of his narrowly tailored trousers. She’d seen it without the trousers too, first much to her embarrassment and dismay. In the time in which her bedroom had occupied the dubious title of “Sherlock Holmes’s no. 1 Bolthole,” Sherlock had revealed news heights to his lack of boundaries and disinterest in the physical. No one had warned her prior that he just as often wandered a flat completely naked as he did in a distinctive dressing gown. He also walked in on others’ discrete attempts to dress in the morning without any apparent understanding as to the equating nudity with a need for privacy.

But without the awkwardness of social interaction, Molly could simply admire. Which drifted over into fantasy. Sexy…but infuriating…but sexy, Sherlock could use with a good, old fashioned spanking. She designed an elaborate mental tableau set in her bedroom those years ago where, instead of stammering, blushing, and winding up sobbing locked in the bath, _she delivers the rightful punishment for his naughtiness. He groans in pleasure with each crack of her hand meeting his buttock. His pale flesh grows redder at the site. She stands tall, powerful in her nakedness. “You’re enjoying this too much…it’s supposed to be a punishment.” He grins into the mattress he is bent over. “Then let me really make it up to you…”_

The fantasy stopped short as she swiftly and determinedly walked forward. Sherlock remained half under the sofa muttering on about…something. Without trepidation, Molly raised her right hand and delivered one smart smack across his bum.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut and fluff are coming but I really am trying to challenge myself to create some semblance of a plot. Hope it makes a bit of sense and rings true to the characters. Thanks to all who have read so far.

It wasn’t a loud crack like she associated with a spanking – instead it was a soft thud. The wool trousers had muffled the impact. So for a moment Molly didn’t quite process what she had done. But Sherlock reacted instantaneously; jerking upright at the unexpected contact and slamming his head against the bottom edge of the sofa. The intervening head bump gave her the time to fully grasp the fact _that she had just smacked his bum._ The impact of all that suggested and entailed and could cause crashed over her. She blushed, shivered, sweat and managed not to be sick. Once he fully cleared the furniture, Sherlock sat up on his heels and stared up at her, wordlessly. His face was frozen in an expression she couldn’t begin to read. Then he cocked his head slightly and squinted. She recognized the sign – she was being deduced. His eyes scanned over every inch of her. This bizarre – atrocious—absolutely inappropriate act had required a recalculation of her person. She silently screamed. She willed him to say something, anything.

After an eternity, he nodded slightly to himself, jumped to his feet, and ruffled his curls. He grabbed the coat of the floor, made a show of twirling his phone around his wrist, and proceeded to text. “Right. We’ll just have to wait then.” “Um, what? We? We will?” Molly fumbled to form words, unsure of what he was referring to, unbelieving that he had skipped over remarking on the smack. “Well I’m not delivering the key he not so cleverly hid beneath the sofa. The client will have to come to collect.” Molly still didn’t understand but frankly she didn’t care. Sherlock made his way towards the door, she turned with him keeping her eyes on him waiting for the delayed reaction. There was none.

Out on the pavement, Sherlock had hailed a cab. From their location, Molly’s flat lay in the opposite direction to Baker Street. And yet, Sherlock held the door open, signaling her to get in. He said nothing during the ride. She knew from the Irene Adler incident not to ask him questions for fear of getting answers she didn’t want to hear. She watched the fare meter continue to click over as they drove down the street. She found it a bit hypnotic and soothing.

He had deleted it! Yes, that had to be it. It was mad and unpleasant so he simply had deleted the experience rather than talk about it. This rationalization was comforting to Molly and made a strange amount of sense given the man in question was Sherlock Holmes. The explanation gave her a new sense of courage. She smiled shyly up at him. He looked at her momentarily in acknowledgement and then turned back to gazing out the window.

Back at 221B, Sherlock addressed Molly for the first time since leaving the crime scene. “Molly, would you like to…have dinner?” The question was absurd. Well, no, the question was quite simple and logical but it was absurd coming out of his mouth and especially after the day’s events. She forgot the rest of her discomfort and responded with “You mean, do I want a portion of fish and chips?” “We can have something else.” “What else do you eat? And crisps don’t actually count as a separate food item.” Sherlock contemplated this for a beat. “Chinese takeaway.” He answered, with a sense of triumph. “I like the shrimp toasts. Though, the toasts have nothing to do with any actual cooking you would see in China…” “Skip the lesson, order the dim sum.” The unheard of notion of Sherlock eating dinner had restored some order to the relationship between them.

He motioned for her to take John’s chair. “Wine. You’ll want wine, I suppose.” “Oh well, that would be lovely,” she said – another surprise “but you needn’t go through any trouble.” She heard the pop of a cork and the gurgle of wine poured into a glass. He presented her a champagne flute, clutching a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in his other hand. “Sherlock!” “I don’t have non-sparkling at the moment.” “But it’s—“ “I can’t serve cheap wine. I’d never hear the end of it from Mycroft.” "Aren’t you having any? “ “Best not, do you not think?” He was right, of course. She took the glass and savored the first sip, the crisp cold liquid turning warm as it hit her stomach. The bubbles sparkled on her tongue.

“Now, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock settled into his chair. He drew his fingers up into a steeple under his chin. “You spanked me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Molly and Sherlock appreciate how much I struggled to get them from the sitting room to the bedroom. A little more plot and a lot more bum to follow. Thank you for reading!

Molly did the only thing one could possibly do in that particular situation. She drained the champagne flute of its contents in one gulp. So he hadn’t deleted the incident from his hard drive. He had, in fact, brought her back to 221B to acknowledge it – maybe even discuss it. Although no talking was taking place. He continued to stare at her intently, running his chin over the ridge of his steepled finger tips. A staring contest was a losing proposition with Sherlock Holmes. “Well, we all do silly things” she finally choked out, vaguely aware of having said something like that before. “Yes but you all do silly things when you’re in relationships” he didn’t spit the word exactly but it sounded foreign on his tongue, “and you, Molly, have professed to have _moved on._ ”

For the first time in over a year, the absence of Tom’s ring burned on her finger. He was humiliating her – again – like always, really. Oh it had been a ridiculous, inappropriate thing to do; she couldn’t even say why she had. But surely she had suffered enough over the years at Sherlock’s biting tongue and discard for common decency to more than make up for it. Every mock, every jab, every note of her weight gains, every criticism of her lips and breasts, every ruined lunch date, every coffee errand, every eye roll, every intrusion into the sanctuary of her goddamn bedroom flashed before her. Fortunately, though, Molly had long since grown out of her simpering acquiescence of Christmas 2011. The Molly of today, this moment, would fight back.

“Of course I smacked your arse. You’re an arsehole, through and through.” Even in her anger, she could still cringe at the insult that didn’t make much sense when said out loud.  But she powered through, jumping up from the chair and turning to storm out. Sherlock’s reflexes were too quick for her. Stopping her flight, he grabbed her firmly, but gently, by the wrist. Molly looked down. “Sherlock, are you taking my pulse??!?” “Yes” he murmured. Matter-of-factly, he bent forward slightly and planted a kiss on her lips. She broke away, sputtering at the medical procedure and the intimate gesture. “And do you take the pulse of all the women you kiss?” He looked sideways. “Um…yes?” and moved back towards her mouth. The doorbell buzzed. “GO AWAY.” “That’ll be the takeaways. You need to answer that.” Sherlock’s jaw hung open in disbelief. “Well off you go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t understand,” he started when he reappeared in the doorway a few minutes later with a bag smelling heavily of soy sauce. “You want this. The chemistry and the biology say you do. Why are you resisting?” “Resisting what exactly? What is this?” He looked askance . “The… _sex_.” “The sex?” she repeated incredulously. “You think because I used to pine after you at work, because my pulse is elevated because I’m bloody cross at the moment, and because I inexplicably slapped your, ugh, gluteus maximus, I’m looking for you to shag me.” He winced at her words but she was too worked up to notice. “Why…how could I even expect that when you’re not interested in…” She faltered. Now it was his turn for the temper to flare. “Not interested in what? _Shagging_ as you so charmingly put it? Women? As my brother and the rest of the world seem to insist?” “No!” She cried out in exasperation. “Me! Not interested in me. I don’t count. I mean, not that way..”

There was nothing matter of fact in the way he grabbed her this time. He pulled her close to him, his hands travelling greedily up and down the back of her floral print blouse and the seat of her wide leg trousers. She slipped her arms around his neck, anchoring her fingers in his dark curls. His open mouth found hers and she sucked gently at his bottom lip. The bulge of his very prominent erection pressed urgently against her thigh. She broke the kiss and nuzzled at his shoulder, leaving quick pecks up his neck and then stopping to nibble and suck on his earlobe. “Sherlock,” she whispered, “I still don’t think I quite understand what’s happening here.” “I’m quite sure it’s obvious I don’t understand any of this” he panted in reply. “Sherlock?” “Hmmm?” “I…” Molly couldn’t muster the will to protest a second time. And anyway, what needed explaining? She fancied him, always had. And Sherlock, who literally reduced sexual attraction down to a set of chemical and biological signals, didn’t need to use words to articulate anything about the present situation. The very hard penis he was not-so-subtly grinding against her said all there was to say.

A muffled door slam and some rustling came from downstairs. Molly froze and looked up expectantly. Sherlock was confused. “That’s just Mrs. Hudson.” “Yes, exactly…” “Oh. Oh!” He gathered her up – not a romantic sweep into his arms but just enough off the ground so as to transport her most efficiently from the sitting room to his bedroom beyond the kitchen. The shrimp toasts were forgotten to the coffee table. He started at the tiny covered buttons running down the front of her blouse. Despite his nimble fingers, the first button did not yield easily. He glared at it and childishly began tugging at all her clothes petulantly and without much effect. Molly put a soothing hand on his and took a step back. “Shall I take care of this and you get to work on you?” He huffed in agreement. If there had ever been a moment when Molly wished she were more graceful, confident, and agile, this was it. But instead, the stubborn blouse got stuck at the collar around her ears and it took three strong yanks to get it over her head. When she could see again, she was shocked to discover Sherlock standing before her stripped down completely save a pair of black trouser socks and kicking his pants from his left ankle. He wore a look of impatience and his erection bobbed about in agreement. The expensive wool suit and white shirt lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. The sight of him, naked, in his bedroom, in the moonlight, for the express purpose of pressing that body against hers was overwhelming to her. And so she blurted out “You can’t leave that suit like that! You’ll ruin it!” Sherlock knitted his brows in bewilderment and look about the room uncertainly. He finally shrugged and turned to bend over to pick up the discarded clothes. For the second time that day, Molly was eye-to-eye, so to speak, with Sherlock’s perfect bum. Determined to restore the sexy mood, she asked the relevant question:

“Sherlock, did you _like_ it when I spanked you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to insert some plot but was having too much fun with the dirty bits. Thank you to all for sticking with it!

Sherlock didn’t answer. The way things were going, she hadn’t really expected him to. Still crouched, he bypassed the suit and worked his socks off. Then he turned around and looked at her, eyes wide and lips pressed in a small frown. Molly took a deep breath and backed into a seat on the edge of his bed. He swallowed hard. “I’m not…I’m not” he started slowly. Molly nodded but didn’t interrupt. “That is to say, I have done…this…before. People make their assumptions and I don’t care to talk about it. Nor is it anyone’s business. But, as it seems relevant at this juncture, I am not a virgin.” “Okay,” Molly responded in relief, “I never really believed you were actually.” But Sherlock continued. “It should be obvious that I don’t make a habit of…this.” “That’s fine.” “I did, though, take the opportunity in Karachi to finally experience what The Woman had been…” “OKAY. THAT we do not need to discuss now. Or ever.” Molly slumped. Sherlock looked chastened.   “Right. Sorry.”

A beat. “I…like…your… _bra?”_ Molly giggled in spite of herself. “Oh Sherlock, don’t compliment. It’s *really* not your area.” “Huh. I find your bra’s presence irritating. Let’s be rid of it.” “Better.” She stood up and rested her arms about his shoulders. He deftly unhooked the bra and made quick work of the zip of her trousers as well. Molly followed his body’s directions and soon found herself lying back on the bed in nothing but a very ordinary pair of pink cotton knickers. Sherlock climbed slowly on top of her and, keeping his head razor-close to her body, traveled from her lips down. He took his time exploring, obviously cataloging every sensory detail to memory. He stopped, often, to place a careful kiss on a particular spot and waited for the reaction. Some might have found his approach clinical but Molly had never been more aroused than by this sexual investigative experimenting. She tried to stay still, even hold her breath, almost hoping not to interrupt or interfere like it was any other case for the detective. But when he peeled down her wet knickers and she felt his warm breath on the quivering folds of her cunt, she moaned and squirmed, deeply and involuntarily. She spread her legs further, wantonly presenting herself to him and reached out for an embrace.

He pounced and suddenly they were a tangle of arms and legs rolling over one another. He pinned her back down to the bed, settling between her thighs, and found her mouth again. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, her feet left dangling a bit above them and ran her hands up and down the curves of his lovely, precious bum. It was a sweetly intimate position – a cuddle Molly had never imagined in all the times she had fantasized about Sherlock in heat. He hummed contentedly as he sucked at her collarbone and very softly rocked his hips rhythmically. She imagined he would be happy like that forever – she would be too except that with every rock, the smooth hard shaft of his cock slid over her swollen clit. The direct stimulation was intense, made bearable only by his lazy speed and the slickness provided by her dripping cunt.

When her labored breath amplified to outright cries and moans, Sherlock stilled with a smirk. “That’s good, then?” Molly, that delicious warmth already building in her abdomen, was past the point of being coy. “I need you…I need you inside me now” she panted and grabbed his throbbing cock as punctuation. His lips curled into a proper smile. He shifted to his side, giving him a better view. She didn’t let go, languidly stroking and teasing the pink, leaking head. He gingerly traced the flushed outer folds of her eager cunt with his fingertip, then slipping one, then two, then three inside, coaxing her open. She bucked her hips to meet the crook of his fingers. He pulled away and repositioned one last time.

Despite her drenched arousal, Molly gasped at the girth of his cock pushing deep inside her. Sherlock grunted at the bliss of her – soft and wet and tight. He fought himself to keep his thrusts slow, careful not to cause her discomfort and desperate to savor every facet of the sensation. But he was quickly losing all control. Soon his technique lost all finesse and he was simply rutting like a wild animal. Molly luxuriated in the wanton feeling of being the object of Sherlock’s shameless lust. Suddenly he stopped, a flash of panic in his eyes. She whimpered at the loss of him then yelped at the touch of his moistened lips. He lapped hungrily at her clit, alternating broad strokes and darting licks. She opened her mouth to apologize for the unseemly way she was grinding her cunt hard against his face but all that came out was “Yes..yes…yes.” Her climax hit like lightening between her thighs and she was floating and falling at the same time. Sherlock, keeping his eyes fixed on her, wiped his mouth and chin with his fingers and licked them clean of her sex.

Smiling in a haze of satisfaction, she motioned for her to rejoin her. He groaned in pleasure every time she shuddered around his cock in an aftershock of her orgasm. His pumping hips continued and he began to whine, almost in pain. He buried his head in her neck and she cradled it in her hands. “What do you need?” Molly whispered against his cheek. Those loving, crucial words. She repeated them softly over and over, “what do you need? What do you need?” Sherlock answered her wordlessly this time – with a final thrust and his release spilling inside her. Hot and sticky and wheezing, neither of them was willing to break the embrace for a long time.

Sherlock proved himself to be a very ordinary man in one respect that evening. When they finally peeled apart, he rolled over on his side and promptly dozed off. Molly, amused rather than annoyed, entertained herself gently playing at his curls. Later, she nosed about the room, marveling at the heaps of spoiled suits cast on the floor but the lack of other mess, unlike the rest of 221B. He woke only a short time later, looking over at her dazed and blinking. She smiled mischievously. “Sherlock, you never answered my question. Did you like your spanking?” He raised an eyebrow theatrically. “It’s just that, I can’t help but notice that a man who leaves his things literally everywhere else in the flat doesn’t keep anything near his bed. Except for his riding crop.”

Sherlock rolled back over and pulled the covers over his head. “I leave you to your deductions…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bad at relationships and Molly is basically all kinds of awesome. Thank you for the kind feedback and for sticking with it!

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson arrived with Sherlock’s morning tea on a tray. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen but that was hardly out of the ordinary. Sounds of life emerged from the general direction of his closed bedroom door. Mrs. Hudson set the tray down and started to tip-toe back. She halted at giggling from a distinctly female voice. “Oh dear…how’s John going to feel about _that_?”

Molly was standing before the mirror in Sherlock’s wardrobe, trying to convince herself that she looked as though she had gone home last night, slept in her own bed, and rose to dress for work in fresh clothes. She fidgeted with her blouse, smoothing the creases with her hands to no avail. She laughed again at the absurdity of the large red mark on her neck where the world’s only consulting detective had spent significant time nibbling last night. The detective in question still lay in bed, stretched out over the sheets with all the pillows propped behind his head. As he texted furiously, he seemed completely unaware of both his overnight guest and his continuing nakedness.

She shyly tried to get his attention. “I suppose you’re not going to beg me to stay in bed with you all day?” her voice cracking just as she tried to sound breezy and casual.

Sherlock lowered his phone, baffled. “Why would I ask you to stay? Your shift at Bart’s starts at quarter past. I have no reason to interfere with your work. Obviously, I’ll text if I require assistance.”

Molly took a deep breath. “No, I mean, see, sometimes after…” She shook her head. “When a bloke enjoys…maybe he just wants to keep…it’s silly…” She squeaked and trailed off.

He pursed his lips. “Molly, I – “ He was obviously trying to select his words with care. “I thought you knew what kind of man I am. I don’t…” He cast about for an explanation then retreated to his old refrain. “It’s not really my area.” She nodded, looking at the floor. “You matter. To me” he added, slowly and emphatically.

Molly wasn’t angry; she couldn’t even muster hurt. Everything he said was true. And his words now were a declaration of affection just as his actions last night were an expression of desire. They were so far beyond her silly, girlish crush of years ago, when she used to try to seduce him into a date with the quick application of some lipstick. Life had forged a real bond between them, different from what she had ever dreamed of but in so many ways deeper and more important.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.” She leaned over and kissed him chastely on the top of his head. Sherlock didn’t respond, seemingly re-absorbed in the sending of his texts. However, at the sound of her footsteps down the stairs, he scurried out to the sitting room window to watch intently as she emerged from the front door and made her way down the pavement. He became aware of an entirely different woman standing in the doorway and turned around.

“Oh Sherlock, dear, could you go put your pants on? We’ve talked about this…at my time of life…”

If that night had quenched Sherlock’s intermittent sexual interest for the time being, it had the opposite effect on Molly, igniting arousal she had not experienced for a long while. When she finally returned to her own flat after work that evening, she headed straight for a wash. Feeling modest about her continuing flush, she lied to herself that she needed to lather her body with soft, rich bubbles over and over and to angle to rinse under the running water until she “accidentally” coaxed herself to come. But three days later, having lost all pretense, she licentiously stood in the bath with the detachable shower head aimed resolutely between her legs, climaxing until the hot water ran out.

Molly didn’t just feel sexy; she had found power in her sexiness. Despite the occasional tremble in her voice, and the proclivity for sticking her foot in her mouth, Dr. Hooper had supreme confidence in her abilities and it showed in her excellent work as a pathologist. She had never enjoyed the same feeling in the arena of sex and romance. But now she had the knowledge that she had seduced Sherlock just by being herself, had triggered a desire that, by all accounts, lay dormant almost all the time. She reveled in her newly found attractiveness and rejected her long-held notion that she just wasn’t one of “those women.” She made a visit to Harrods one afternoon to indulge in a black silk lingerie set complete with belt, suspenders, and stockings – moreover, she liked the way she looked in it when she strutted back and forth in front of the mirror at home.

Molly enjoyed herself enough over the next week that she almost didn’t notice that no texts signed “SH” beeped on her phone…almost. She worked hard against the notion of rejection and understanding Sherlock’s mind and Sherlock’s heart (to the extent that that was possible) cooled the sting. Still, she checked the screen of her mobile a little more often and looked up every time she thought she saw a hint of a distinctive Belstaff out of the corner of her eye, just in case.

Of course, Sherlock actually made a huge show in of bursting into the lab in full view on the morning, eight days later, when Molly finally saw him again. John followed behind, rubbing his temples and groaning audibly. Sherlock flew about the room, the coat billowing behind him, mumbling about a missing appendix. He froze upon seeing her properly for the first time. She knew from the speed of his eyes scanning over her that she was being deduced, once again. She hoped that she kept her facial expression still enough so as not to give away that she knew precisely why. A wisp of the black trim of her bra was visible to all at the collar of her fuzzy striped jumper; only Sherlock could have perceived the matching belt and suspenders under her pink corduroy skirt. He struggled to bite back the smirk forming at his lips. Beeping woke both of them from their staring contest.

“Sorry…that’ll be Mary…I better just…” John pointed as he walked out the swinging doors, mobile in hand.

Sherlock swallowed hard. Then he turned sharply and strode towards the doors as well. As he passed the last desk, Molly called out smugly, “You can’t actually take the appendix with you!” Sherlock tossed a metal bowl on the desk without breaking his stride and hissed “Tedious” under his breath. In exactly the number of minutes that it takes a London cab to travel from St. Bart’s Hospital to 221B Baker Street, a text finally appeared on Molly’s phone.

Baker Street. Don’t change your clothes. - SH


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly still have a ton to figure out about each other, but taking time for sex instead is always a good plan. Thank you for reading!

The door had been left open so Molly walked into 221B unannounced. Standing at the window, Sherlock turned to her and pointed his violin bow accusatorially. “ _You_ aren’t wearing your underwear.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am, too, wearing underwear.”

“ _That,_ ” he waved the bow in an outline of her belt, “is not your underwear.”

“Are you accusing me of theft, Sherlock? Is Greg Lestrade here to take me down to the station? Is that why I’ve been summoned?”

He huffed and flung himself into his chair. Molly began to frown. She disliked the sense that Sherlock wasn’t enjoying the banter or, indeed, his piqued interest in her.

“I have a case! THIS is inconvenient.” His knee was bobbing up and down at hyper speed. Molly considered turning around and walking out. She wished to protect herself from how unpleasant she knew he could become and frankly he looked more tormented than teased. But then he licked his lips, probably involuntarily, and Molly knew that Sherlock’s body had won out over his racing head. She pressed on.

“And, remind me, what is _this_?” She slowly sauntered towards the chair. Sherlock pouted. “Are you going to tell me what _this_ is?”

“No.”

“Oh. Are you going to tell me why you summoned me to Baker Street?”

“No.”

“Do you want to see the underwear you so adamantly insist isn’t mine? Do you need to investigate?” She stood between his splayed knees in front of the chair.

“No.” He reached for her hip.

“Are you going to make room for me in that chair?”

“No.” He shifted to make a lap for her.

“Are you hard for me, Sherlock?”

“No.” His erection pressed thick against her thigh.

“Are you going to keep saying ‘no’ when the answer is yes, Sherlock?”

“Noooooo…” He smirked at her and leaned in for a kiss.

“Do you want a spanking?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

                                                                                                                  

 

Molly shivered nervously. “Sherlock, I feel a bit…I dunno…”

“No I’m fine,” came the muffled reply. Sherlock lay splayed out on his stomach across the bed, his face buried in the duvet and his bum high in the air with anticipation. Molly had been no less impressed this time by the speed with which he had stripped off his silk dressing gown and the shirt, trousers, and pants underneath. She remained in the black lingerie and stockings, which, despite prior protests, he had investigated thoroughly with his eyes, hands, nose, and lips and found agreeable. She fingered his black leather riding crop timidly, unsure of some of the basic mechanics.

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. Is it done yet?”

Molly had virtually no experience of BDSM activities, however light, and she regretted the offer of engaging Sherlock’s kink without more knowledge. But she knew well enough that submissives don’t berate their dominant partners and irritation bubbled up at his ridiculous response to the situation and his lack of appreciation. Fortunately (or unfortunately), she had a riding crop in her hand.

When the black leather hit his pale white flesh, his cry was of pure, unadulterated pain. “Oh my god. Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” Molly dropped the crop and leaned over his trembling body. She cupped his right buttock in her hand and began to massage the red welt forming. His breathing evened. She climbed fully on top of him, pressing her cool, silk-clad body against him and running a hand through his mussed hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible into the bed. She rolled off so he could sit up a bit. “I said, I haven’t exactly done this either. Not in this context. I’ve been whipped before, obviously.”

“Obviously.” She shook her head and took a deep breath before clarifying. “So, you mean, you didn’t do this with…?”

“The Woman? It wasn’t on the menu in Karachi. I suppose we could find some guidance on her website. I don’t imagine she’d answer a text now but I could—“

“SHERLOCK!”

“Right. Sorry. I seem to remember John once explained to me what is appropriate with women. I filtered.” He plopped his head, face first, back on the bed in a pout.

“Should I just go? I did interrupt your case.” Sherlock looked at her like a wounded puppy. “Or shall I kiss your bum and make it feel all better?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She got up on her knees and bent over, leaving kisses on his lower back, thighs, and directly on his bum. She traced the crack with one finger and let her hand travel down between his legs, searching for access to his scrotum. He gasped and grunted then wiggled to roll over. She started on his chest, following with kisses the trail of sparse dark chest hair down to his groin. His pink cock stood fully erect and waiting. Her tongue drew light, wet streaks up and down its shaft and her hand found his soft, heavy scrotum again. Sherlock’s panting erupted into a loud groan as Molly’s much-maligned, small mouth nevertheless managed to swallow his erection whole. She didn’t have to work her lips long before he was jerking his hips violently, his climax obviously imminent. “No—Please—“ he begged.

Molly sat up and swung her stocking-clad leg over to straddle his waist. She pulled the damp crotch of the black silk knickers aside. “Is this what you want?” He couldn’t form words to assent as she lowered herself onto him and his fullness filled her ready cunt. She rode him forcefully, finding the angle where his cock stroked the ridged swelling of her g-spot. Catching a glance of herself in the mirror, she wondered for a moment if he would prefer it if she carried the riding crop as she bounced up and down on his throbbing erection. But Sherlock had begun thrashing again, his face betraying some sense of distress. He shut his eyes tight and hissed, “no no no no no…”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” She brushed the hair, matted with sweat, away from his forehead even as he spasmed inside her again. There were so many questions to ask (and so much more sex to be had!) but for the moment Sherlock’s brain and Sherlock’s body were exhausted.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter that, I hope, moves the plot forward a bit (it can't all be bums). Thanks for all the feedback!

“I think we should talk.”

Sherlock had taken only a few minutes to cool down and regain his strength. “Why be boring when there are such delightfully interesting things to be done?” He kissed the spot of skin, now bare, where he had just peeled off her stocking. She swatted at his head. “Fine! I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to…I did try…you were…I couldn’t stop. It’s rather upsetting, really.”

“What are you on about?”

“I do know the custom. It’s ungentlemanly.” He struggled to get the next words out. “The female orgasm is to be dispensed with first.”

Molly burst out laughing. “That’s so _not_ what I think we should talk about!”

“I’m not always rude. I do sometimes elect to make an effort.”

“I’ve found you very polite in bed. In fact, you’re _only_ polite in bed. It isn’t a game, you know. There’s no need to keep score.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. Molly was severely tempted to give in to Sherlock as he pawed at her bra and leave the talking to another time. But she persisted.

“My mother always said that you’ve got no business fooling around if you’re not mature enough to discuss it properly.”

“My mother always said ‘My darling, clever boy, do you think you could stop poisoning your brother’s tea?’” The way he looked up her, Molly knew exactly why Mrs. Holmes had never had the heart to discipline him (and had ruined him for the rest of the world.) “Well, you’re the expert. After the ‘quite a lot of sex’ you have with… _Tom._ ” Her narrowing eyes warned him off the subject further. “What requires discussion?”

‘What are you feeling?”

“ _I don’t have feelings,_ ” he quickly retorted. A look passed over his face, as though he realized what an arse he was being. He promptly curled up into the fetal position for a sulk, pulling the flat sheet over him as though it were armour against the uncomfortable conversation. “This is difficult for me. I dislike losing control,” he admitted meekly from under the sheet.

Molly was incredulous at the statement. “That’s preposterous. You’re a drug addict!”

“No – No.” The first in frustration, the second in melancholy. He wormed out of the sheet, and looked at her intently. “I had hoped you would see.”

“I’m trying to.”

“I choose not to care about certain things, to be distracted, to let them control my actions. But it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate them. It doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes want –“ Molly kissed him very lightly on the mouth. “Don’t make the mistake of expecting me to be other than I am. I do very much dislike disappointing you, Molly Hooper, but I will disappoint you.” She kissed him again.

She didn’t know why she had expected a short or clear answer to her questions. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure what the questions were. She thought she was asking him to explain his complicated, at best, relationship to the nature of sex. But he had answered as to something much closer to the nature of love. Sensing that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, explain himself further, she shivered at the realization that she was wasting the opportunity of a naked Sherlock willing to be distracted from his work, if only for the evening. She batted her eyes, attempted what she hoped looked like a hair flip, and pulled off her remaining bra. “So what you’re saying is that you’d be a rubbish boyfriend?”

Sherlock’s face flooded with relief at the flirty turn the conversation had taken. “Fascinating…” he smirked at her just as he pulled her to him.

“Good deduction skills, then?”

“Um, no. Terrible. Painful.” He cradled her in one arm, sliding his opposite hand up between her thighs.

She nibbled at his ear. “Am I also wrong in my deduction that you _don’t_ want me to research the details of this spanking scenario?”

“I would never stand in the way of the collection of data. For investigative purposes.”

 

Mrs. Hudson had quite a bit of trouble getting to sleep with all the racket upstairs that night. But she comforted herself with the knowledge that all the bumping and screaming for once had nothing to do with murder and mayhem. The next day she still managed to remember to leave two cups out with the morning tea.

 

Later in the week, Molly got a text at work.

This? Definitely this. – S

Molly downloaded the attached image and blushed. Her stomach fluttered, not unpleasantly, at the thought of recreating the scene.

I imagine not this. – S

Molly downloaded the second image.

**_OMG am I going to be arrested for having this on my phone??!!? -M_ **


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hopeless at writing any sort of case-based plot but I hope I'm doing some justice to Sherlock and Molly's emotional states. Thanks for muddling through with me.

And then one day any suggestion of sex, any hint of flirting, any question of affection came to a halt. Molly didn’t need any official confirmation that Sherlock was on the case the minute she saw the coverage of the terrorist attacks on the telly. It wasn’t just that his mind naturally would be completely consumed by his work; the British populace needed Sherlock Holmes to be that singularly focused for its safety. She didn’t bother to text – she knew she wouldn’t get a response – but she was prepared if and when he needed her.

The first contact was actually through Mycroft. The elder Holmes knew his brother did his best work when surrounded with the familiar so he cleared with the British government for Sherlock to do all his chemical analysis at his “home away from home,” St. Bart’s. Molly was notified as she arrived to work that her security clearance was still in place and all of Sherlock Holmes’s requests took top priority. “I have a security clearance?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course.” Sherlock appeared around the corner. “Big Brother checks out all my _friends._ ” He smirked at Mycroft, who looked up from the dossier he was reviewing, sighed wearily, and raised his umbrella in a half-hearted attempt at greeting Dr. Hooper.

“Okay,” she shrugged and grabbed a lab coat. Sherlock settled in behind his microscope.

The lab soon cleared to give the detective peace to conduct his investigation. He and the pathologist found a good rhythm working side by side. He ran his tests quickly and decisively and she kept pace with his speed. The lab remained quiet, though not uncomfortably so, as he let his mind run unencumbered and she anticipated his next need or request. There was no chatting (of course there wasn’t) but Sherlock did manage a nod in acknowledgement at a test tube or a slide and even mumbled a “thank you” to an offered bag of crisps. The crisps themselves lay ignored on the desk.

After what felt like a couple of hours, there was short stretch during which Molly didn’t have an immediate task. She rested on a stool, fiddling with the wisps of hair that had come undone. She watched Sherlock admiringly, noting how he never tired no matter what stress or responsibility hung about his shoulders. At that moment, John ducked into the lab with a tray of coffees and a brown paper sack.

“You must be dying,” he said, handing over a coffee and a wrapped cheese sandwich. “Of course this one’s not human," he waved in Sherlock's general direction, "but you’ll need something for sustenance.”

“Oh I’m fine. We’re just getting started. And the work is very much Sherlock’s.”

“What?! Molly, you’ve been in here with him closing in on 28 hours. You’re amazing.”

John turned his attention to Sherlock, who had finally noticed his arrival and demanded to see photographs snapped at a particular location. Molly considered the clock. She truly hadn’t felt the passage of time wearing down on her.   Some of her stamina was surely the product of the adrenaline her body produced in the heat of the crisis. She sipped at the coffee and felt the warm jolt almost instantaneously. No, John had recognized the real reason. She _was_ amazing. Always had been. No one produced such clean, accurate, efficient results, even on the most average of days at the hospital. She was smart, capable, determined, and diligent. Her help had mattered most before and it would again here. She crammed half a sandwich ungracefully into her mouth and regrouped to begin the next round of acid tests.

Another two hours later, Sherlock exclaimed “that’s it!” as much to himself as to Molly. John had long been dispatched to give updates to Lestrade and Mycroft and then to return to his wife and daughter for a spell. Sherlock flung his coat on and stomped out the swinging double doors. Molly beamed at the glimpse of the fist pump he secretly gave himself in the hallway and then turned to tidy things up a bit before heading home for a bath and a nap. She couldn’t be sure when she’d be called upon next.

The weight of the heavy wool Belstaff brushed up behind her. She startled, not having heard Sherlock re-enter the room. He bent towards her and she awkwardly ducked, trying to get out of the way of whatever he had come back to retrieve from the lab desk. His mouth landed on her hairline and half an ear. He pulled back, disgusted.

“Wait…What was that?” Her lips curled reflexively at the botched sign of affection.

“A…kiss? Well, I won’t be trying that again.” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and pouted out the door once more.

It dawned on Molly that she had virtually forgotten that she had only recently spent the night in his bed, moaning his name with their bodies intertwined. She felt downright, well, Sherlockian in having spent the last 30 hours completely enthralled with his brilliant brain rather than his beautiful bum. But another thought passed over her as well – it would seem that Sherlock himself had not so forgotten their exploits, even in the midst of such an interesting case.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly have wandered away from my original plot a bit but I think I'll be able to rein them back in future chapters. And who doesn't like a field trip to the morgue?

Sherlock’s discovery in the lab had exposed the terrorist plot as much larger and more complex than even Mycroft had first contemplated. His part in the case, locating the terrorist leader, took another month. He farmed the following military operation to take down the group and destroy its physical base out to the British army. Molly and her colleagues watched the breaking news announcement of the first air strikes streaming on someone’s laptop in the canteen. Mycroft was visible in the background, stone-faced. Molly scrutinized the small video window for a glimpse of dark curls or the collar of a wool coat amidst the sea of grey and navy suits. There was none.

She knew he was all right. Her place in the Holmes inner circle was secure after the Lazarus project and if there had been injury or capture or worse, she would have been notified. In fact, Mycroft may well have summoned her. So the tumult rising in her stomach wasn’t worry. No, now that his part was finished, now that the case was solved, Molly allowed herself to miss him. She allowed herself to stake an emotional claim to him. She ached at her core for him. The press conference was over and people started to disperse, back to the work at hand. She wandered in a daze to the morgue to finish her shift.

Molly had never been the instigator in the whatever-this-was between Sherlock and her. Well, notwithstanding one ill-timed, inexplicable smack of the bum. But she needed to reach out now. She lied to herself that she would be content just to see him and hear one whip-smart, rude, infuriating, marvelous deduction. She felt meek and nervous and her hands trembled while pulling out her phone in a way she hadn’t experienced in years with regard to him.

This time she did hear him enter the room, although he remained silent. He stopped short in the doorway and simply fixed his gaze upon her. She had seen him so disheveled before, his hair matted and stubble uncharacteristically adorning his face. But his eyes weren’t wild or shifting as though under the influence of drugs; they blazed steadily at her. She didn’t know who took a step forward first.

Their bodies collided with some force. Sherlock’s strong embrace around her back kept Molly from falling. He enveloped her in his arms and the open edges of his coat. His mouth was firm and greedy on hers. She slid her arms around his neck and thread her fingers through the curls on the back of his head. His kiss deepened and she met his searching tongue. The pricks of his stubble burned across her pale skin but still she pressed her face ever closer to his. She could barely breathe but it seemed his lips were the only thing giving her life. Sherlock’s grip on her small frame against his never loosened.

She finally broke the kiss and he whined in protest. She pulled her hands down to his lapels and stared intently at his neck. She undid another button on the crumpled purple shirt beneath the suit and the coat and trailed a finger lightly down his collarbone. She felt his entire body quiver at her touch.  Undisturbed by the public nature of the room, Sherlock lifted her onto the slab, thankfully empty, behind them, his intentions clear. Sensing her hesitation, he grimaced, deflated. Then he brightened at the small office door leading away from the open space of the morgue. With superhuman focus, he swept her back into a kiss, across the room, and into the cramp nook of an office, kicking the door shut behind him.

He slammed her up against the back of the door, exploring with his hands and keeping her pinned with the weight of his torso. Molly had never experience Sherlock so rough and desperate – in fact she had been surprised previously what a tender lover he had turned out to be. But the present force of his lust neither scared nor hurt her. Unable to keep up with his manic groping and fondling, she closed her eyes and threw her head back, offering up her neck and décolletage . Her trousers fell easily with one twist of his hand – he hadn’t needed to look up from the spot he was sucking. Molly knew the lace knickers underneath wouldn’t yield so easily but instead he ripped the clinging fabric straight off her pelvis. At first she gasped at the cool air hitting her exposed flesh and then moistened quickly at his thumb stroking back and forth over her warm, throbbing clit. She reached down to release his visible erection from the constraints of his own trousers. It was obvious that Sherlock was too aroused to notice that though he had lost his pants he still wore his coat. He lifted her effortlessly so she could straddle him. His engorged cock leaked in her hand while she guided him to her.

Molly sighed with relief as their bodies finally joined but Sherlock would not be calmed. Every thrust against the door intensified as he strove to plunge deeper and deeper into her welcoming cunt. She clawed hard at his shoulders, hanging on so as not to slip off during his wild jerking. His breath became ragged and it took her a moment to make out what words he was huffing. “Molly…mine…my Molly…mine.”

The telltale contractions of Molly’s orgasm were too much for Sherlock to bear. They cried out together – her voice high and breaking, his low and guttural. He struggled to maintain their balance as his straining muscles gave way. They both sank to the floor, Sherlock’s body somewhat breaking the fall. He held loosely about the hips and turned his eyes upward, searching for something to say. He finally settled on “I haven’t found a new case yet” and immediately sighed at the wrongness of it.

Molly snorted and patted his cheek. They fumbled about, untangling and lurching off the office floor. His usual cat-like agility, in particular, was thwarted by his post-coital state. They managed to sort out enough clothing in order to be decent enough to exit into the public space of the morgue; Sherlock buttoned the Belstaff closed effectively hiding the mess he had made of the front of his trousers. Curiously, they whispered so as to be discreet although neither had worried about keeping quiet while in the throes of passion only minutes earlier. Sherlock chivalrously opened the door for Molly, who froze and blanched as soon as she saw outside the office. He pulled the door back further to reveal what had given Molly such a fright. Two men stood, lying in wait presumably for them, in front of the office.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a little angst to go with my fluff and smut. Sherlock's going to have to wait a little longer to get his pain with his pleasure. Thanks, as always, for reading!

The two men waiting outside the office wore very different expressions. On the right, John Watson stood slack-jawed, his eyes wider than if he’d seen a live elephant in the morgue. On the left, Greg Lestrade kept nodding with a shit-eating grin. Sherlock Holmes’s level of skills wasn’t necessary to deduce that they had heard _everything_. The lovers stepped timidly forward. Molly clamped her arms across her chest and stared steadily at the ground. Sherlock swallowed loudly and assumed a defiant stance.

“Well, what is it? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need my help.”

“It’s not a big thing yet but I was hoping you could take a look at a body that just came in. Trying to keep the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed in this chaotic time.” Lestrade made a valiant effort at staying professional but by the time he reached the word “chaotic” he was nearly crying with laughter. John opened and shut his mouth a few times, doing an excellent impression of a goldfish.

Sherlock walked over to the slab where a pair of feet was plainly visible. Lestrade turned and followed, with Molly trailing behind. John stayed stuck in place still facing the door, repeatedly trying to form a question and failing completely. Molly was numb – she’d had too many shocks to the system, both emotional and physical, in the last hour to react to the absurd situation. She pulled the clipboard and started to review the intake information on the corpse.

“Let’s take a look.” Sherlock reached into his pocket to locate his travel magnifying glass kit and whipped his wrist in his typical fashion. However, instead of the black case, his hand produced a pair of torn lacy knickers. This was breaking point for Sherlock – his whole being appeared to shut down as he gaped, silent and blinking, at his hand’s contents. It was the last straw for Molly, too.

“Put. That. Away.” she hissed at him. “And everyone, out! I’m not authorizing this viewing. You can find another doctor to supervise if it’s so damn important right this second.” The three men scurried at her scolding.

“Right…yeah…well, I’ll just go see about finding…” Lestrade mumbled, chastened into a professional demeanor and fled out the door.

John had finally found his tongue. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he demanded.

“I suspect so, given your tireless penchant for irrelevant questions,” Sherlock snapped back, slamming the swinging door back open for both of them.

Molly didn’t even register that he hadn’t said goodbye. She shuffled back to the little office, shut the door, and plopped down in the desk chair. And then, because she couldn’t think of another reaction to have, she burst into tears. Everything was spoiled. Molly had long ago abandoned her daydreams of Sherlock as boyfriend; she hadn’t needed his warning that evening in bed that he simply couldn’t conform to that norm. She had made her peace that this thing between them wasn’t a relationship – but only because it was still special in its own way. There were real feelings involved – she had missed him and surely this episode had meant that he had missed her.

And yet she was certain, now, that it was over. Discretion, if not outright secrecy, had been important to Sherlock; look at how many years he spent pretending to be a virgin or embracing sexual ambiguity. He didn’t like owning or surrendering to his sexual impulses, even more so if others knew about his “weakness.” And how did it make her look? They all knew her feelings; she’d never been guarded. No one had even batted an eyelash when her engagement to Tom ended. And here she was, desperate as ever, yielding to any attention he bothered to throw her way. John and Greg probably assumed he just needed access to equipment.

There was a knock at the door. Molly pressed her hands to her face, trying to cool her cheeks which burned with her salty tears and her humiliation and lost. For the first time in a long while, perhaps ever, she was not the smallest bit pleased to see him standing there.

Sherlock was alone. He must have noticed her crying but chose to ignore it. “I actually do need to take a look at that body. Lestrade’s an idiot. The case is at least a 7. That’s clear even without a proper examination.”

Molly couldn’t decide whether she was impressed or annoyed by his ability to delete from his mind the reality of what had just transpired. She pulled the corpse back out, wordlessly. He managed to locate his magnifying glass this time and hopped about the slab, mumbling details to himself for consideration. She zoned out and didn’t realize that he had stopped to address her.

“Hmm?”

“John said we need to talk.”

“What does John know?”

He snorted. “Yes, that’s what I said. Nevertheless…let’s have dinner.”

“It’s only two. Anyway, the machine’s out of crisps.”

“I was thinking more like Angelo’s. You eating pasta while I alternate staring restlessly at you and out the window at the criminal class afoot in London.” He smiled expectantly but Molly didn’t react. He tried again. “Or a takeaway at Baker Street?”

“Sherlock, you’re perfectly capable of eating fried potatoes on your own. I have to go. You know how to clear up after yourself here.”

“Oh, but, don’t you need to be here. To authorize? I am respecting your authority.”

Molly’s fuse blew. “Oh so now you’re flat out making fun of me?!?”

Sherlock grew alarmed. “No, no. I—no…”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. The swinging doors slammed behind her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not at all satisfied with how this chapter turned out but I'm making peace with being terrible at plot. On to more fun for Molly and Sherlock (and more fun writing!)

“Oh I love this song!”

Everyone paused to listen to what was playing over the sound system in the pub. The pints were still flowing fast and the group crowded around the table had demolished several portions of fish, chips, pork pie, and some culinary and cultural abomination called “Irish nachos.” Molly usually preferred a somewhat quieter setting for reconnecting with old mates from university but tonight the noise and the crowd and the warmth and the booze were a comfort. She felt normal for the first time in over a week. No one here knew who Sherlock Holmes was, beyond John Watson’s blog or a random BBC news story, and more important, no one here cared. The six boisterous former medical students reveled in re-living their old party antics. Hugh, seated on her right and many beers deeper in than Molly, stretched his arm around her shoulder and back of chair, singing dramatically into her ear. She giggled at the seriousness with which he repeated the asinine bubblegum lyrics.

“Molly? That’s the guy, right? Sherlock Holmes? From Bart’s?”

“What are you on about?”

“No, really, didn’t you know our Molly works with the hat detective?”

“Are you taking the piss? Molly, how did you not tell me that?”

Molly didn’t respond to any of the chatter; in fact she barely registered it. Upon hearing his name, she had followed her friend Hannah’s sight line. There, beyond the window pane, out on the pavement, stood Sherlock Holmes. He held himself very still, bent forward slightly with his arms crossed behind him. He peered into the dark, busy drinking establishment. Beyond the intensity of his gaze his expression was unreadable. When their eyes met, he straightened up.

“Oh my god. Molly, he’s looking for you, isn’t he? Are you on a case?”

There was no way to ignore him without being awkward in front of her friends. Molly locked her jaw and waved him in. Despite the crush of people at the door and inside, he appeared before the table in a flash. They all looked up at the internet celebrity with anticipation, save Hugh, who was sloppily calling out to the bartender to order a pint for the addition to their party.

Molly cleared her throat and prayed that her voice wouldn’t crack. “Everyone, as you can see, this is the famous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, come meet some of my classmates from uni.”

He did not respond. In fact, he stood just as still as he had been outside. His eyes scanned over each person seated in turn. They lingered for an extra second on Hugh’s hand, which continued to hang loosely on the back of Molly’s chair.

“ _Sherlock_!” she hissed. The sharpness of her voice appeared to jostle him. He said nothing, only nodded curtly to the group of friends. And then with a swish of the Belstaff, he was gone. Molly was never more grateful for friends with such good humour. Everyone was feeling too drunk and celebratory to take offense at the oddness of the detective’s behavior. In fact, Hannah pulled out her phone and started snapping selfies, trying to instagram the experience of “being deduced by the Reichenbach Hero.” But the party soon dwindled anyway, as the call of careers and families and livers ten years older than their days at school beckoned them home.

Molly stood on the pavement, taking deep breaths of the cooler, clearer air outside of the bustling pub. She wasn’t drunk she’d argue, just feeling warmer and more fluid. She started to walk towards the station for the Tube back to her flat but stopped and hailed a cab instead. When the cabbie asked for her destination, she replied decisively, “221 Baker Street.”

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Hudson answered the door bell. “Oh hello, dear. Goodness, I’d been wondering where you got off to. This one’s been in an awful state lately—worse than usual. Go on through, I’ll let you see yourself up.” She smiled conspiratorially and popped back in her kitchen.   Molly heard her turn the radio programme louder.

She didn’t hesitate to open the door upstairs; of course it was unlocked. Sherlock was perched in his chair, cradling his knees under his chin. He wore his coat, scarf, and leather gloves. Though he looked in her general direction, Molly wasn’t entirely sure that he actually saw her standing there. He was muttering to himself at a whiplash rate.

“Surprising how wrong I was. There’s always a margin for error, of course. And I was working with an imperfect data set. But still, so wrong…”

At another time and place, Molly might have been concerned. But now she simply demanded, “how did you find me?!”

Sherlock shifted his gaze to fully meet her eyes. “I followed you, of course,” he answered, confused at the question. His remarks drifted inward once more. “Very easy target. Distressing, really…”

“That is _such_ a violation of my privacy!”

Now she had Sherlock’s full attention. He spit his words with disgust. “ _Violation_ _of privacy_? I spent a year bursting in on your flat without warning or permission. I’ve riffled through your bedroom drawers. I’ve…well, I’ve…” he waved his hand mimicking the curve of her body. He slammed his feet down on the floor and leaned forward accusatorially. “No, you’re not cross about privacy. You’ve been caught, Molly Hooper, and you don’t like it. But what did you expect? Did you manage to forget that I’m a professional?”

Over the years that she had known Sherlock Holmes, she had been privy to a host of mad situations, culminating in helping him fake his own suicide jump off the roof of St. Bart’s. But none of that compared to the absurdity her life had become since she’d smacked that bum. “WHAT are you talking about?” Now the erratic behavior struck a nerve and she changed tack. “Sherlock, listen to me, are you clean?”

“An equally valid question – are you _involved?_ ”

“I’m checking your vitals. That’s the most I can manage here. But I’m calling John—“

“No, you will not. It will be a waste of everyone’s time. I broke into John’s leftover scotch is all. But _in-volve-ment._ There’s a matter to investigate. Let’s solve the mystery of Molly Hooper’s involvement, shall we? She spent all those years pining after a rude, unappreciative sociopath – _Hello!_ – but learned her lesson and found herself a nice, dumb – but nice! – _Tom._ But she didn’t really, did she? She couldn’t go through with the dog, and the weekends at the pub, and the meeting all the friends and family. She gave the ring back to _Tom_ because she knew, deep down, she wanted something else. Molly Hooper isn’t a complete idiot, no. So why, then, has she gotten herself involved with another nice, dumb, but nice doctor in a pub with his arm around her?”

Molly wished that she could find Sherlock’s preposterous deduction funny. Her anger still raged but she calmed herself – steely where Sherlock was manic. “Hugh? You’re talking about Hugh? My mate from uni who drunkenly threw his arms around everyone at the pub at some point in the evening? You’ve got me walking down the aisle from a hand on the back of a chair? Your skills are slipping, Mr. Holmes.”

“A lack of concern with a public display of affection suggests comfort between the—“

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me. You are ridiculous and your complete lack of knowledge of women, nay _humans_ , is evident. I am not involved with Hugh. In fact, let me solve your mystery, Sherlock Holmes. I am not involved with _anyone._ Certainly not involved with the sociopath I’ve been shagging recently – and that’s the only human (and I use that term _loosely_ ) I have been shagging.”

Sherlock slumped in his chair. He evidently still disliked the word “shag.” Molly caught her breath and continued.

“Oh you’re a proper genius, all right. You dislike disappointing me? So you make sure I can’t expect anything from you. It’s not your area, all bets are off. Keep my expectations so low you can’t possibly not meet them. If I’m stupid enough to hop into bed, it’s my own damn fault. It’s brilliant, really. Hat’s off to you, _Detective_.”

“I thought you understood…”

Her anger snowballed rather than slowed. “Oh I understand. I understand that you’re not normal. But I am. Normal little me. I want a home and a family and friends. I want eight hours sleep at a proper time. I want three meals a day with the proper spectrum of foods. And I want a proper boyfriend who calls me and doesn’t disappear for months and wants to take me on dates and hasfucking feelings. I. WANT. NORMAL.”

Sherlock swallowed and pursed his lips. Molly didn’t want to wait for whatever his biting response would be.

“Before you can tell me how many pounds I’ve gained since you last saw me, I’ll see myself out.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An impressionistic interlude before Molly and Sherlock work their ways back to each other. Thanks for sticking with it -- the end is in view.

The days were easy. Her anger accompanied her during the days. Working in the morgue kept her humiliation fresh – not just being caught in flagrante, really that was the least of it. No, Dr. Molly Hooper was a competent, nay, really rather brilliant pathologist at St. Bart’s Hospital and a lovely human being and she deserved respect and kindness. She did _not_ deserve years of criticisms of her personal appearance, bitchiness about her relationship status, and manipulation of her honest and open feelings for a colleague and supposed friend. She had offered herself, given of herself too many times and been ultimately used and discarded one too many times. How dare Sherlock Holmes exploit her feelings once again – and in such an intimate and violative way – when he had nothing to offer in return?

No, the days were easy. It was the nights that were difficult. Her companion Righteous Anger deserted her at night though she clutched at it; trying to remember the burn of old slights. Molly lay in bed with her eyes clamped shut, sometimes even a pillow over her face to drown out the echo of the other kind of Sherlock’s past words. “ _You can see me.” “Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most.” “Molly…mine…my Molly…mine.”_ She could still feel the weight of him on top of her, the brush of a loose curl against her forehead, the smoothness of his strong shoulders under her hands. Her cheeks flushed as though his hot, ragged breath was still on her neck.

His apparition in her bed was bad enough but her memory was now playing tricks on her. Had Sherlock _asked her to dinner_? Really properly suggested dinner in a restaurant with romantic candles on the tables? No, of course he was mocking her. He didn’t want a relationship. He couldn’t do a relationship. He had insisted. He had warned her. She had his entire life history as proof. But that day, that bloody day before John and Greg bumbled in and dashed the delicate…thing between them, hadn’t Sherlock seemed to be coming home to her? Missed her, truly, in the way she had missed him. And then gotten jealous over another man. It was all suggestive of… _but this was madness._ Don’t ask Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath, to be other than as he is. But he _had_ asked her to dinner.

It wasn’t as though she could ask him for clarification. The bridge had been burned, she knew well enough. There was no way she would experience anything better than the resentful disgust he displayed for his foils, like Sally Donovan. But it would probably be so much worse. “Don’t make conversation” would seem like glowing praise in contrast to what he must be ready to hurl at her now. That small, awkward smile that so infrequently broke through his countenance of ice would never be directed at her again. Not that he would ever deign to be in her presence again.

The nights were torture. But then the morning would break and the work day would begin and Sherlock still wouldn’t arrive at Bart’s for any reason. He had obviously found someone else to do his bidding. Molly Hooper could resume her wounded, righteous posture. Used and discarded.

 

Molly noticed the black car following her almost immediately. The ordeal of Moriarty had forever sharpen her senses; she knew she could never afford to not be completely aware of her surroundings.   Ordinarily this kind of situation would have made her nervous and sent her running for a safe, public space and a call to the police (or, well, him). But her exasperation overtook her. She stopped theatrically in the middle of the pavement and threw her shoulders up in shrug to say “what gives?” The car came to a screeching halt at the curb. A woman with a glamorous blow-out and a smart black suit leaned out the now rolled down window. Molly recognized the woman immediately from Mycroft’s employ. She paused, almost ready to give the entire Holmes family the finger but thought better of it. It was unlikely that Mycroft would go to such lengths without a serious reason to do so.

As she rode in the backseat, fuming, she expected to be brought to a government security lab or perhaps the Diogenes Club. Instead she was ushered into the magnificent, albeit empty, foyer of Claridge’s. Mycroft entered dramatically from a side door and gestured at the center table set for afternoon tea for two.

“A bit over the top perhaps, Miss Hooper,” he offered to the guest he had summoned, “but I felt some elegance and charm might be most conducive for our little chat.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft ships Sherlolly and I want afternoon tea at Claridge's.

For the first time in weeks, Molly felt something other than anger or anguish. She was amused. Leave it to Mycroft to outdo his little brother on the absurdity scale for social interactions. She might have felt self-conscious dressed as she was in slouchy trousers and an oversized striped cardigan but the privacy of the meeting removed the need for the Claridge dress code. She plopped down in the chair and surveyed the offerings on the three-tiered service tray. All too familiar with a very particular theme of Sherlock’s taunts, she masked a smile with her cupped hand when Mycroft bypassed the scones and sandwiches and reached straight for a confection of pink cake.

“Mr. Holmes, why am I here?”

Mycroft didn’t answer immediately, clearly still savouring his first frosted bite. “Miss Hooper, I have long been enamored with you.”

“What?!?”

“Yes, you see, your competence is, of course, well appreciated. But your loyalty – and your discretion – they are singular. You are a most impressive human being and have never disappointed in the years I’ve been watching you.”

“You what?”

Mycroft continued without addressing her interrupting question. “Frankly, if I weren’t convinced that my possessive little brother wouldn’t burn down the whole of London in protest, I would have recruited you to be a mole for me buried in MI6 years ago. But I must confess I am alarmed by a certain development as of late. It’s no secret that family sanity and the safety of the Commonwealth require that I keep tabs on Sherlock—“

Molly slammed the knife down that had been heaping clotted cream on a scone seconds before, clearly unwilling to follow this line of discussion. “I’m not sleeping with him anymore!” she exclaimed, more loudly than she had meant to. “I was barely sleeping with him to begin with…or…something,” she added, more softly.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered gravely. “Therein lies the problem.”

She couldn’t choke out the “what” in response to this new confusing development.

“He’s behaved abominably, to be sure. I am so often saddled with the role of “Sherlock Holmes Apologist” but this time I do think some explanation is warranted. You see he really doesn’t know how to do this sort of thing. I can’t in good conscience call it an excuse but it is an accurate description of the situation. He’s still an infant when it comes to the friendship…thing.” He grimaced at the word and waved his hand dismissively. “But the romantic variety? At the risk of sounding crude, I never expected him to eschew his fears and dive into the sexual waters at all.”

“Well, that sounds…something,” she retorted, flatly.

“Right. Apologies. But there you have it. His attentions were so obviously divided while we were abroad tracking down the terrorist cell…in a way they had never been before. No, no please don’t feel that you in any way created a threat to national security by being a distraction—“

“I don’t.”

“His faculties weren’t dulled in anyway. He simply showed all the signs of a man intent on going home to his…” He cleared his throat and looked pained. “Girlfriend? As good a term as any. Naivety and ego stood in the way of considering that you might not feel the same way. Or at least that he had not performed all the steps of the chemical reaction in order to produce the desired result.”

Her mind had not been playing tricks on her. _He had asked her to dinner._

“Now I’m not usually one to interfere.” Even with her head spinning at the present circumstances, Molly managed to cock a disbelieving brow at the understatement. “But something had to be done. His reaction to that nasty business with Irene Adler was difficult. This is untenable. No case, no puzzle, no mystery has been able to rouse him. Mrs. Hudson reports even the violin has gone silent. I beseech you to reconsider your position.”

“I’m sorry? What exactly do you think you’re asking me to do? Agree to a sham of a relationship with someone I’d rather never set eyes on again in order to make your job protecting the United Kingdom easier?”

Mycroft looked aghast. “No. No, certainly not. That’s hardly apt. On the whole, Sherlock Holmes causes more trouble to me professionally than his dragon-slaying rectifies.” He settled back into his chair and turned his head. In profile, avoiding meeting her eyes, he explained, “I simply worry about my little brother. I’ve always counseled him not to get involved. He does feel things so deeply and never seems able to extricate himself.” He shifted back to her. “And like I said I have utmost faith in you. You can’t fault me for trying to bring about what I think is best for him.”

“What about what’s best for me? I love how everyone just assumes I have feelings for Sherlock…” Mycroft rolled his eyes and Molly shrugged in defeat. “Fine. But what about what I want?”

“Oh yes…normal, was it? His intermittent mutterings have centered on that theme since his ill-advised ambush at your drinking establishment that night. No, Sherlock Holmes can’t offer you normal. It’s really the only thing he cannot offer to a woman who walked away from her engagement for no discernible reason, fell in love with a man doing a fairly good impression of a sociopath, pursued a profession where she works with dead bodies all day and often night, and amuses herself with off-color humour about death and bodily harm.” He smirked at her meaningfully.

This time Molly refused to meet his eyes. She stirred her tea fixedly.

“I am certain I know what will make my brother happy. Miss Hooper, are you as certain that you know what _you_ want?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change in point of view for the conclusion. Sherlock and Molly have some resolved threads but plenty of mystery still to explore together.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed this half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for all the great feedback.

We’re out of milk – S

NO. I’M NOT OUT OF MILK. I HAVEN’T LIVED THERE IN YEARS MATE.

Sherlock sighed at his phone and squirmed in his chair. Another text followed the first.

NOT-A-HOUSEKEEPER DOWNSTAIRS AND NOT-A-GIRLFRIEND UPSTAIRS. FIGURE IT OUT GENIUS.

A tedious response. Mrs. Hudson had been visiting her sister for the past two days. But maybe not so tedious. Was John really suggesting that it would be acceptable to ask Molly to retrieve some milk from the shops? His advice on women was suspect at best. And then, of course, he and Mary were making the pointless effort to conform to the typical parameters of romantic relationships, despite the fact that neither one of them was normal in any sense of the word.

He was irritated at his predicament. Molly Hooper had never denied him help in all the time he had known her. She had, quite literally, saved his life. How was it conceivable that she’d object to fetching some milk?

Yet such a large miscalculation had dashed his confidence in his predictions of her behavior. After all, he had thought she understood. He had made such an effort to be an affectionate partner in the lab at Bart’s. He had said “thank you.” He had attempted to kiss her goodbye at the end of the day, for god’s sake. How did she not see that they were in a relationship? Granted, he hadn’t kept up with certain expected, asinine pretenses of “being a boyfriend” like he had with Janine. But this was his Molly – they needn’t waste time with such foolishness. He had carried her underwear in his pocket. It _really_ should have been obvious.

Plus he disliked intensely the fact that he still did not know what had ultimately brought Molly back around. So he was determined to get this right.

Some of her rules defied all logic. At a long promised dinner at Angelo’s, he had grown concerned that ambiance wasn’t properly romantic for her needs. He, himself, felt the time dragging unbearably as she nibbled at pasta with prawns. Taking her pulse to gauge her interest was the only sensible thing to do. He wasn’t terribly surprised when she swatted his hand away from her wrist. He was astounded when she took the same hand and slipped it between her thigh. Smiling mischievously, she noted nonchalantly the “real” way to measure chemistry. He meant to argue that surely _that_ was a more objectionable way of collecting information but when his fingertip met wet flesh instead of fabric he lost his train of thought.

He was intimately acquainted with every inch of her body but his presence in the bathroom was often offensive. His violin playing was lovely at 7pm but painful at 3am. She rebuffed offers to socialize with brilliant graduate chemists like Billy Wiggins but actively sought out tea with that pompous ass, Mycroft (as if their meeting at Claridge’s once a month was a secret to him). She was an intelligent, trained scientist but watched Doctor Who without comment or concern.

More to the point, soon after she had moved into 221B, a simple request for a foot had garnered some good-natured groaning but she appeared with an insulated foam container that night. His subsequent protest that it was the wrong foot – obviously he needed a left one – had resulted in flying sofa cushions, one of which knocked over a kitchen table beaker. He was not eager to repeat the experience.

He was still unsure of how to proceed when she materialized in front of him, slinging her purse over her shoulder. He swallowed hard.

“Sherlock, I have the evening shift so I’m doing the shopping now. I know we’re out of milk – do you want anything else in particular?”

“Really?” He found this an unexpected but most convenient announcement.

“Really what?”

“John never actually did the shopping when he lived here.”

“Yeah, well, John also didn’t spank you wearing nothing but red lipstick, black stilettos, and my white lab coat while he lived here either, now did he?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but squirmed again at his soreness from the night before. He knew better—they had been over this – now was not the time to filter and retreat to the Mind Palace. But though she continued to speak about necessary items for the pantry all he experienced was his lovely, darling Molly presenting herself coquettishly before playtime began. The coat had been large enough to hide her pert, rosy breasts but the dark curls framing her sex peeked out and beckoned him. He had nearly abandoned all their plans for the evening, the urge was so strong to spread her across the kitchen table, cleared and disinfected for this very purpose, and devote himself to nothing but worshiping her clitoris with his tongue. But she had produced the leather riding crop, dragging the tip down the front of his purple shirt and he had stripped upon her command. They had finally done their research – he bent over the table, the proper height and angle, with his comely, round bum exposed and suppliant. Her strokes had been confident and controlled – the black leather sharp and quick, setting all his senses on fire. She had adeptly alternated massaging his burning skin with his straining erection. The pain was exquisite and exciting… at her hands.

Molly had been asking the wrong question all these months. _Why_ did he want his bum spanked? What a pointless inquiry. The reasons were myriad and all equally plausible, if he could bother to contemplate them. A control freaking who enjoys losing control. A crime-solver who enjoys being punished. An alpha man who enjoys being submissive. A thinker who enjoys extreme shocks to the physical system. A naughty son who enjoys being disciplined properly. The list could go on. Irrelevant.

The only thing that mattered was that Molly be the one to share in it. For so long, sex had remained a mystery to him. His contempt for John’s chasing after it may have been harsh but was legitimately felt. What was the big deal? His early experiments at university had been disappointing – the girls had found him too cold and clinical in his approach for any spark to survive. And The Woman – ultimately they found the physical culmination of their game had been very little more than a scratch for an itch.  That attraction would always be only cerebral. But his Molly was different. And he was different with her. She was sensitive and responsive and warm and delicious and being with her didn’t satisfy an inconvenient urge. It fueled an incomparable fire…

“WHAT did you just say?”

“I said, Sherlock, that I moved all the foul, used petri dishes from the upper shelf that I can’t reach without a step ladder and stocked it with a whole bunch of packets of crisps. You shouldn’t run out any time soon.”

“ _You moved my experiment?!”_

“Oh please, you think I can’t tell the difference between a properly growing specimen and a bunch of old, dirty equipment you’re too lazy to clean out?”

He sulked even though she was exactly right. And she played along, crawling into his lap and stroking his hair to soothe him.

“Oh, you were very attached to the potentially hazardous bacteria growing, then?”

He buried his head in her neck and answered mournfully, “I was _involved_.”

“Hmmm…You don’t actually take milk so the shopping can wait. How shall I make this up to you, Sherlock?”

He smiled broadly. “Come solve crimes with me, Molly Hooper.”


End file.
